


Moments

by delia-pavorum (literaryminded)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: And Other Postpartum Stuff, Ben is Here to Help, Body Worship, Breastfeeding, But Seriously - Touches on PPD/PPA Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, In more ways than one, Married Sex, Mild Lactation Kink, Oral Sex, Postpartum Body Image Issues, Postpartum Rey, Rey Feels Sad, Size Difference, So If That Squiggs You Out, TnA Worship, and insecure, consider yourself warned, postpartum sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 04:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/pseuds/delia-pavorum
Summary: Part of her wants to maintain her silence. It’s difficult for her to admit weakness of any kind. It’s difficult to acknowledge that something is not right – hasn’t been right – since the baby was born. Not just in the way she sees herself (because Maker knows that has changed, too) but in the way she thinks and interacts with the worlds around her. She has been shouldering this alone for almost six months now – the emotional turmoil, the sadness, the anxiety, the stress. She should be used to it – she shouldered a difficult life, also alone, for more than ten years.But things are different now. She’s had a taste of companionship. Someone to lean on. It’s made her weak.It’s made her not want to deal with thingsaloneanymore.





	Moments

**Author's Note:**

> So, once again, I have taken what was supposed to be a short and smutty one-shot (this time about postpartum insecurities with a side of mild lactation kink) and turned it into Something Serious. 
> 
> **Content Warning** : Discussion of (unnamed) Postpartum Issues, likely something approaching PPD (Postpartum Depression) or PPA (Postpartum Anxiety) or just under the general umbrella of Perinatal Mood Disorders (PMD), which is a new acronym I learned thanks to a lovely commenter! (Thank you, [Musickat18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musickat18/pseuds/Musickat18)!). See more notes at the end.
> 
> For those who made it this far - thank you for reading. Feel free to leave kudos or comments letting me know what you thought!

* * *

Rey perfunctorily uses the refresher, careful to avoid the mirror. The steam from her recent shower swirls around and her gaze drops down and away, as she lifts her towel from the floor and wraps it around her body. Only then does she glance up, her eyes meeting her foggy reflection’s briefly, before dipping her head down and wrapping another towel around her hair.

She beelines out and softly pads to the bedroom, almost bumping into her husband in their narrow hallway on the way. 

“Well, hello,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her waist and spinning her in a half circle. He ducks his head and captures her lips in a short, but searing kiss. She melts against his body for a brief, blissful moment, before pulling away.

“Mmm,” she mumbles her assent. “Hello. Did she go down?”

“For now,” he responds, good humouredly. “She didn’t give me too much trouble anyway.”

“Thank the Force,” Rey says on a sigh. “I’m starting to feel like a thala-siren.” An image of foamy green milk dripping from a bearded face flashes through her mind and she shudders.

“A what?” Ben asks, looking at her quizzically. It occurs to her that the mammal was likely native to the shores of Ahch-To and those who have not had the pleasure of visiting the planet would likely not know what she was talking about. She considers projecting an image to him through their bond, but decides against it. She’s certain the last thing her husband needs at this point is a visual of yet another lactating hypermammarian creature in his midst.

Instead, she just shakes her head. “You don’t want to know. Needless to say, if we can get her down to five feedings during the day and _maybe_ one at night, I’ll be happy. And so will these guys,” she adds, palming a heavy breast in each hand through her towel and giving them a jiggle.

Ben groans out loud. “Please don’t do that to me.”

She sheepishly withdraws her hands from her tender breasts. He ducks his head to kiss under her ear, in the silky spot where a tender pulse beats. Then he continues kissing down her neck, wet, soft kisses. She gently exhales and loses herself in the moment as she twines her arms around him. His lips migrate to hers as his hands go to the knot in her towel.

“What did the medic say today?” he murmurs against her mouth as he loosens the front and starts to pull it away from her.

Rey comes back to reality with a suddenness akin to a bucket of cold water being poured over her head. She pulls away abruptly with a barely stifled gasp and tears the towel from his hands, wrapping it tighter around herself.

“Still too soon,” she manages to gasp out. “Said to wait a bit longer.” At those words, she brushes past him.

Once in the safety of their room, she quickly pulls a pair of sleep pants on under her towel and pulls one of Ben’s shirts over her head. Only then does she allow the towel to fall to the floor. Ben walks in as she’s bent over, drying her hair with the other towel. He sits at the edge of the bed and stares at her. He doesn’t speak and neither does she. Once she’s vigorously rubbed the towel through her wet hair, beyond the point of what’s necessary, she drops it to join the other one on the floor and then crawls into bed.

“Can you pass me my datapad?”

He turns to look at her and makes no move to do as she’s asked.

“Please, Ben,” she wheedles. _Let it go. Please let it go_. “I told Finn I’d check their trajectory for tomorrow and see if I could find him a better route than the one they’re taking. If he can avoid—" 

“What’s going on, Rey?” he interrupts, impatient with her efforts to dodge the issue. He has eternally, frustratingly, been nothing if not straightforward. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Did the medic say something was—” He visibly needs to collect himself, jaw clenching, “—wrong? With the way you’re healing? It’s been over five months…” His voice trails off and he looks at her, almost pleadingly. “Talk to me.”

She responds in a visceral way to the worry and anxiety in his tone, but a knot forms in her throat at the thought of having to explain to him what, exactly, it was that was _wrong_ with her.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong. Not like that. I just don’t – I don’t _feel_ ready, that’s all.” She can feel her hackles rising, an innate defensiveness borne from a need to _survive_ first and foremost at an early age, and she tries desperately to quash it before it consumes her.

This is not Jakku.

This is not Unkar Plutt or the other scavengers and traders.

This is Ben. She can be honest with Ben. She can be herself with Ben.

_Can’t she?_

She gives herself a mental shake. This is part of it. This voice in her head that speaks to her, against her, in ways that she’s not used to. A dark voice. A pessimistic voice. A voice that says all the horrible things that _could_ be, rather than looking at the positive things that _are._ She knows she has a tendency to let the dark consume her at times, knows it has happened in the past. It’s part of what Luke Skywalker feared in her so. It’s the part of her that Ben, most of all, helps her to control and to master, as he tried for so long to do the same for himself.

The renewed existence of it, so very loud these days, worries her exponentially.

“Rey.”

His voice breaks through her thoughts, quiet, but so patient and so kind. Any vestiges of Kylo Ren that once existed in him have been banished for what feels like ages now. Even in the very beginning, those turbulent days when they were first bonded together and communicated across the galaxy, she knew there was a softness in him for her. Saw it in the way he responded to her with curiosity and care rather than violence or anger, even after she had left her scars on him, physically and emotionally—

“Rey.” His deep voice penetrates once more and she realizes that he’s moved so he’s sitting right beside her now, leaning back against their headboard. He tucks a tangled strand of damp hair behind her ear and allows his finger to trail softly across her cheek. “Sweetheart, if you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you.”

Part of her wants to maintain her silence.

It’s still difficult for her to admit weakness of any kind. It’s difficult to acknowledge that something is not right – hasn’t been right – since the baby was born. Not just in the way she sees herself (because Maker knows that has changed, too) but in the way she thinks and interacts with the worlds around her. She has been shouldering this alone for almost six months now – the emotional turmoil, the sadness, the anxiety, the stress.

She should be used to it – she shouldered a difficult life, alone, for more than ten years. But things are different now. She’s had a taste of companionship. Someone to lean on. It’s made her weak.

It’s made her not want to deal with things _alone_ anymore.

Something inside her splinters.

Ben has her in his lap, head tucked under his chin, resting against his heart, her body curled into the cove of his broad chest and strong arms, before she even realizes she’s sobbing.

“Shh, shh…” he murmurs soothingly, softly sifting his fingers through her hair. “What is it? Talk to me. Rey.” He presses a kiss to her head. “Rey, don’t shut me out anymore.”

She should have known, she thinks as her tears soak through his soft shirt, that he would know she’d erected walls. Just tall enough that only her lowest thoughts would stay out of his mind, but walls nonetheless.

He waits patiently for her to collect herself, his mouth still pressed to her head, as he strokes her hair, her back, her arms. She takes deep, gulping breaths as she tries to control her emotions. To finally confide in him how she’s been feeling all these months. An anxiety has seized her heart. How can he possibly love her still, after he knows where her head has been? Ben, who only knew loneliness and neglect as a child, who was so looking forward to being a father to right the wrongs of his own parents. How can she admit to him how profoundly she has failed at her part in this?

She hazards a glance up at him, knowing she must look a complete mess – eyes swollen and bloodshot, already dark-circled from what has literally been over one hundred sleepless night cycles, her nose red and running, hair frizzing and half-damp as it dries. He’s looking down at her gently, tenderly, the way he always does, his face so familiar and dear. Both of them have fought a war – literally and figuratively – and come out the other side. Both have done things they are not proud of, things that shame them, things that they would take back if only they could.

Would he judge her, now, after how far they’ve come?

From stores of courage she has not accessed in quite some time, she takes a deep, bracing breath, and begins to speak.

She tells him how the birth of their beautiful daughter completely traumatized her, with an arduous recovery she did not anticipate. How the first weeks of breastfeeding were excruciatingly painful and that, when she would leave the room under the guise of needing to find a quiet place or to have a bit of privacy when in company, the reality was that she actually just needed somewhere to cry. How, even now, the act of nursing their child makes her feel like she wants to crawl out of her skin and how she’s so touched out she cuts feedings short sometimes because she physically can’t stand it anymore.

The whole time she’s talking, she avoids his eyes. She can’t bring herself to look up and see—what? Concern? Reproach? Maybe even anger? Disgust?

Instead she concentrates on the inside of his hand, idly stroking the fingers up and down, pressing into the calluses from his lightsaber, drawing circles in his large palm. She leans into the shelter of his arms, feels his heartbeat at her back, strong and reassuring. And she talks, and talks, and talks.

After crossing the initial hurdle, conquering her fears of bringing this into the light, she finds that the dam has burst and the words won’t stop coming. She tells him about loneliness, even when the three of them are together. Of missing her independence, their ability to pick up and go wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Of hating her body now, this ugly creation of softness and jagged silvery lines, heavy, drooping breasts and darker nipples, merely a tool for incubating and feeding a child, and no longer strong or lean or… desirable. Ben’s arms tighten fiercely around her at this point and she hears him intake a breath as though to speak, but that’s when she continues with her worst, most vile confession of all. The one where she sometimes looks at their daughter, this beautiful, perfect thing they created with their love, and thinks, “You were a mistake”.

The more she speaks, the more the guilt settles deeply into her heart. When she says the last part, her breath actually catches, as though her subconscious mind is gasping at the words she just uttered, even as her conscious mind utters them. Oh, how she feels like a failure. Of course she wouldn’t know how to do this properly. Of course she would kriff it up. Of course, _of course_ she would be so, so unworthy of it all.

Although she feels that the words could keep coming if she let them, her voice has now failed her. She is unsure if she’s been talking for minutes or hours. Tears fall in a steady stream from her cheeks and plunk down on their entwined hands.

Rey looks down in surprise. Ben has his hands palm up, fingers tightly linked with hers, tucking their joined hands into her chest and belly, his arms around her. He’s holding her, she realizes. Truly holding her, in an embrace that conveys love as much as it does comfort. It makes her cry even harder.

“I’m so—so… s-sorry,” she manages to choke out between gasping sobs. She feels like her chest is going to cave in with guilt and grief. He squeezes her hands and wraps his arms around her tighter, crossing his arms so that her own criss-cross over her chest, and now it’s like she’s also hugging herself. He rocks her slightly side-to-side.

“Stop,” he whispers in her ear. “Stop this. Stop tormenting yourself. None of this is a reflection of you as a person or a mother. Just stop, sweet girl.”

“How can you say that?” she wails as he continues to softly rock her, back and forth.

He’s quiet for a moment. She can sense he is sifting through memories and situations in his head, drawing from personal schema, to try and relate to her. To try and help her.

“Although I wouldn’t say my childhood was ideal, by any means,” he begins finally, speaking gently, his lips still close to her ear, “I also wasn’t abandoned in the desert at age five. Sorry,” he adds, cringing, when she involuntarily shivers a little at his words. “What I’m trying to say is, I had the privilege of experiences that you did not. Meaning, while my mother was not _always_ around, she was around often enough. And she had friends around, too, at times. Women of a certain age, who were going through parallel experiences to my mother’s. Also some women who were younger, having children around the time when I would have been a child myself, or approaching adolescence.

“All this to say,” he continues hastily, as she shifts and he must sense that she needs him to get to some sort of point, “as a lonely boy, without many friends, and desperate for the attention, or even just the _presence_ of my mother, I would be around – whether they knew it or not – for many of their conversations.”

She waits now with bated breath, instinctively realizing his next words would either help or hinder her own experience.

He continues: “And this feeling you’re expressing to me, this feeling of – of unhappiness, of begrudging your newfound lack of autonomy, or – or difficulty bonding, or frustration with breastfeeding – this isn’t something that only _you_ have ever felt, Rey. This is common. This is _normal_.”

She pulls away from him and braces her hands on his knees, turning her body to look at him in the eyes. Her narrowed gaze meets his guileless one. Immediately she feels a small modicum of relief. Not at his words, not yet, but at the fact that she sees no reproach or censure in his eyes. He’s looking at her the way he usually does – a bit bemused, slightly charmed, always with love.  

“Truly?” she asks, skeptically. “I don’t think so, Ben. You likely misunderstood, or it wasn’t as bad as you—” She pauses with a grunt as images, feelings, and dialogue floods her mind. She immediately understands it as a transfer of information through the bond, but it’s been awhile since they’ve done it to this extent and it leaves her feeling a bit wobbly, even as it occurs. She digs her fingers into his thighs as the bits and pieces of these situations with his mother and her friends or colleagues infiltrate her mind.

 _“Oh, Maker, what I wouldn’t give for an uninterrupted soak—”_

_“I just feel like my time would be better suited outside the home—”_

_“—And I want to be like ‘get_ off _’—”_

_“I honestly don’t know what to do—”_

_“—Makes me a bad mother, but—”_

_“—Easier to just let the droids take care of it—”_

_“Of course I love him, but sometimes I just want to be like, ‘Please, Ben, leave me_ be _—”_

Guiltily, Rey looks up at Ben as a familiar voice speaks in her head. He’s looking away, concentrating on sharing his thoughts, but looks up when he feels her gaze on him. He gives her a rueful smile and a half shrug that only further cements her belief in how far he’s come since the days when he toed the line of the Dark Side. She relaxes and allows the memories and thoughts to consume her – and also to convince her that, perhaps, he’s right. Perhaps it is normal, or at least a version of it. She still feels guilty for having the thoughts she does, but maybe it isn’t so unusual for a girl, who only ever relied on herself, to feel a bit overwhelmed having someone else solely relying on _her_.

She relaxes slightly and slouches back into his body again.

“So, does this mean you don’t hate me? Or think I’m a horrible person or a bad mother for feeling this way?” she mumbles, leaning her head back into the curve of his shoulder, heart still aching a bit.

He chuckles softly and kisses her temple. “No, I don’t hate you. And I certainly don’t think you’re horrible or a bad mother. We’ve had enough examples of bad parenting, you and I, to realize what the phrase _actually_ represents. Angry or frustrated thoughts borne from sleep deprivation, hormonal imbalances, or what have you, do not fall into the same category as everything we’ve been through.

“I do think, however,” he continues, and he arches his neck to make sure she can see him as he speaks, “that if you continue to feel this way and it’s not getting better as she gets older or as you’re getting more sleep, and that talking to me isn’t helpful – because you _will_ be talking to me more about this – then you have to promise me you’ll look into talking to someone else about it. Someone who can help more than I ever could.”

She knows what he means, knows that there are professionals out there to whom she can speak, to help sort through her feelings. She gives him a wordless nod, solemnity in her eyes.

He kisses her soundly on the lips and leans back again, with Rey relaxing against him. After a moment he continues: “Even if I hadn’t had the experiences I’ve had, the ones I shared, I know enough about _you_ , Rey, to know that these thoughts and feelings don’t define you. I see how you are with her and I have the luxury of seeing you through a lens you don’t have. I see the unguarded moments. The looks between the two of you. The secrets you hold, only with each other. And if you think I haven’t also seen the tears, the frustration, the angry moments – despite you trying to hide it from me, in person and in the Force – you don’t know how closely I actually watch you.”

She nods haltingly, placated for now. She lets her eyes drift closed.

“There is something else, though,” he continues. His tone causes her eyes to snap open and she cranes her neck back to look at him.

“What?” she asks, equal parts worried and curious. 

“I did take exception to one of the things you said,” his voice is a low rumble in her ear and she shifts, uncomfortably anticipating whatever he’s about to say. “How could you even think about disparaging your body? Saying you’re not… _desirable_? Rey, are you insane?”

She avoids his gaze and sinks lower into his body, her cheeks burning. “Well,” she begins defensively, “you can’t possibly think nothing has changed.”

“No,” he agrees. “A lot has changed.” 

Her face gets even redder, if possible. “See? So, how can you say—” 

“A lot has changed,” Ben repeated. “Like, you carried my child in your body for nine and a half months. You ate well during that time – I know, because I made sure of it. These,” he palms her heavy breasts in his hands as he speaks, “grew as they became able to provide nourishment to my child, to keep her alive and thriving—”

“I know,” she grumbles, “but it’s not easy going from being… the way I was… to being – _this_.” She squeezes her soft belly between her hands for emphasis.

“A lot has changed, Rey,” Ben repeats, softly, “and I wouldn’t change it for anything.” She snorts softly. “Force, why do you think I can’t keep my hands off you? I’ve been trying to maintain my distance, respecting your wishes, but it’s been nearly impossible. I feel like I’m about to go out of my kriffing mind if I can’t have you soon.”

She crawls out from her spot between his legs and turns to look at him, chagrined. She’s not going to pretend like she doesn’t know he still desires her. It’s just so difficult to get past her own insecurities. Knowing he hasn’t seen her – _really_ seen her – since the baby was born doesn’t help. 

“So let me see you,” he rumbles gently, and she realizes now there are truly no more walls between them.

She stares at him contemplatively, worrying her lip. He stares back intently, honey-dark eyes warming her face with his gaze. She can feel his heartbeat thumping across the bond. She lets her eyes wander over his familiar features. His unruly waves; fathomless dark eyes; the faded scar along his cheek that reminds her constantly of how far they’ve come and simultaneously how he’s always been hers. Full, sulky mouth, which has wrought the fullest extent of pleasure out of her body, from her lips down to her toes. She shivers a bit at the protracted thought of his mouth. His eyes darken further as he hears her thoughts. Loudly.

“Rey,” his voice has dropped another octave. He still sits, leaning back against the headboard, arms loosely resting in his lap. But his eyes bore into hers with an intensity that leaves her breathless. “Let me see you.” 

 _This is Ben_ , she reminds herself. _This is my Ben._ And she pulls her shirt over her head. 

His eyes devour her. Her arms tremble with the effort to keep them at her sides and not cross them over her chest and stomach. She hazards a glance down. It’s been over three hours since the last time the baby nursed and she can see she’s bordering on engorged. Blue veins marr her freckled skin, pale here, forever untouched by the sun— 

(Except for that one time, after they married, when the war was over and they spent almost fourteen standard days on Spira gorging on jogan fruit and wandering the deserted beach areas in various states of undress – she feels a pang now at the memory. Not bittersweet, precisely, but a mild longing nonetheless—)

–Nipples darker and a bit raw still from their trials. She rests on bent knees, her bottom touching her feet, and she self-consciously notes how her stomach now rolls over her sleeping pants rather than being tucked in and taut. To make matters worse, purplish silver lines snake up from her hip bones, two or three on each side, closing in on her navel. These she does run her hands over, as though the action could rub them out completely. Miserably, she looks up at him again. His eyes are already caught on hers. He leans forward, rests his left hand on the bed, and hooks his right hand behind her head, capturing her lips in one fluid motion. Her gasp against his mouth swiftly turns into a moan as the familiar taste of his tongue on hers pervades her psyche. She tangles her fingers in his hair and allows him to lean her back so she’s lying on the bed and he’s on top of her. Her legs fall open as he rests his body between them. She brings her knees back up, loosely locking her ankles behind his thighs. He lazily grinds into her as they continue to kiss, slowly, languidly, both continuing to stoke a fire that never really burns out.

 _I’ve missed this_ , she realizes, angry with herself for withholding this part of who she is for so many months. Yes, they’ve kissed, and he always seems to migrate to her side of the bed to hold her whenever she hasn’t fallen asleep on the chair (or the floor) in the nursery, but the intimacy that leads to _more_ has been lacking since before she gave birth and she recognizes that this lack of connection might have even been adding to her unhappiness.

 _Me, too_ , a voice replies in her head to her earlier thought and she smiles against his lips, pulling him closer.

After another moment or two, he pulls away and immediately moves his lips down her jaw, to her ear, down her neck and lower. He links his fingers through hers and drags her hands up until her arms are stretched over her head. Pinning her arms there with his hands still entwined in hers, he drags his mouth down, down, until he’s kissing around her breast, teasing the nipple with his breath and then his tongue, before moving to the other side and doing the same.  

“Ben,” she says on a half-moan, half-sigh. Suddenly, she feels a telltale tingle in her breasts, a static-like buzzing in her veins. “Ben!” This time it’s a warning.

He either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care, and continues to place open-mouthed, wet kisses on her breasts and nipples, biting and sucking gently on one side while his thumb plays with the other side, then switching to lavish the same attention in turn. Abruptly he pulls back, a look of comical surprise on his face as he looks down.

“Oh, _kriff_ ,” she moans, mortified, knowing exactly what she’s going to see as her gaze follows his.

Sure enough, milk has begun drip-dropping from her nipples, sliding down her breasts and her rib cage, wetting the sheet underneath them.

She covers her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she wails, voice muffled. He doesn’t respond. After a few agonizing moments of silence, she hesitatingly moves her hands from her face to hazard a glance at what she’s sure is going to be the horrified face of her husband.

His head is cocked slightly and there’s a flush high on his cheeks. His breathing is irregular and she can feel the unsteadiness through her bond. He brings his hand up and shakily draws a finger through the wetness surrounding her nipple, swirling it around the tight peak. She bites back a moan. He brings his other hand up and does the same to the other side, spreading the seeping liquid around and around until this time her moan can’t be contained. She weakly thrusts upwards, but cannot budge him as he kneels between her legs. Using both hands, he rubs her breasts up and then around, up her chest and across her collar bone. He’s making a mess but neither of them seem to care. Bringing his hands back down to palm a breast in each hand, wet nipples sharply poking him in the middle of each palm, he brings his mouth to hers fiercely and kisses her, all clacking teeth and urgent tongue. He sweeps his hands underneath her and gives her rounded bottom a ferocious squeeze, before lifting her and grinding her against his hardness notched into the apex of her thighs. 

“Everything about you,” he gasps between kisses, “is fucking _magnificent_. These,” he brings his hands back up and squeezes her leaking breasts. “This,” he groans as his hands go back down to squeeze her bottom, “oh Maker, I always loved this, but _now_ —” He bites off another groan as he gives her one more appreciative squeeze. Then, he brings his hands up to span her waist. He kisses down the center of her chest to her navel and further, nuzzling into her belly. She strokes his hair softly. 

“I know you’re unhappy with the changes since she was born,” he rumbles, kissing her belly, “but you have no idea how perfect you are.”

“You can’t be serious,” she scoffs quietly, self-consciously dropping her hands from his hair and running them along the marks beside her bellybutton.

“My love,” he looks up into her eyes, “you and I have both gotten and given – sometimes even to each other – our fair share of scars. These ones, here,” he says, kissing the marks, “are some of the most worthwhile. And they’re the ones I cherish the most.”

Her eyes well up and she brings him up so she can kiss him again. “Okay,” she whispers after a few moments of urgent tongue tangling and gentle rocking. She nods as she clutches him to her. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. Now,” her voice drops another octave as she looks into his eyes, “now fuck me. Fuck me, Ben. Please.” She holds his head between her clenched hands and gives it a tiny shake. “Please.” 

He visibly startles at her words and then lets out a sound that is a cross between a growl and a groan. He captures her lips with his and they kiss feverishly for a minute. As they kiss, he reaches over his head and, with one hand clenched into the collar, pulls his now-wet shirt up and off. She shimmies out of her sleep pants and then uses her toes to pull his pants down half way. He chuckles at her innovation before removing them the rest of the way. She goes to pull him up to her again and he shakes his head.

“Oh, no,” he says. “It’s been too long.” At that, he dispenses with pleasantries and throws her legs over his shoulders.

She bites her lip to stifle her moan. _This will be the hardest part_ , she realizes, regarding lovemaking post-baby. _Keeping quiet_.

From between her legs, Ben traces the seam of her lower lips with his finger, spreading her wetness up and down. “Maker, the way you smell, I missed this, missed you—” He inserts a finger inside her, up to the first knuckle. “So fucking wet for me, baby. So wet and so tight.”

“Oh, thank the Force,” she hiccups, throwing her head back as he pushes deeper. “Her giant head didn’t stretch me out too much.”

He shoots her a sardonic glance while he continues to play, moving his finger in and out, delving a bit deeper each time, tickling the soft spot inside that he knows she feels all the way to the roots of her hair. She starts to softly cant her hips upwards with every thrust of his finger. He slowly adds another, lets her get used to the feel of it. She is tight, she can tell, after a rough birth and some time spent with medical applications and bacta followed by weeks of healing, her body is not used to the invasion. Still, she misses it, craves it, wants more. She tilts her hips to take him deeper and he moans.

“Rey, you’re killing me,” he says with a groan.

“Ben, please.” _Make me come_.

As the words echo across the bond, he puts his mouth on her. She bites her hand to stifle the broken cry that comes out as soon as his tongue touches her clit. He pulls his fingers out just to taste her up and down, licking and teasing until she feels the fire within her climbing higher and higher. He brings his mouth downwards until his tongue finds her entrance and begins to surge inwardly, matching her, pulse for pulse. She thrashes her head back forth and when his thumb finds the little bud at the apex of her sex and starts stroking it methodically, while his tongue continues its invasion below, she can no longer hold back a protracted keening moan.

She can only imagine what she looks like right now. Legs spread, a broken flush spreading from leaking breasts to freckled cheeks, her hands over her head and clenched into the sheets so tightly she won’t be surprised if she rips them. 

The worst is that she can hear him, can hear all the filthy thoughts coursing through his head about how good she tastes, how wet she is, how much he wants to devour her entirely—she moans again.

With a growl, he moves his hands to clench tightly at her thighs, lifting them even higher over his shoulders so her hips lift up from the bed completely. She gasps and moans and throws her head back while he mercilessly consumes her. He moves his tongue back up to her clit and places it flat, while he inserts two fingers fully into her sopping entrance and curls them upwards. Simultaneously, she grinds herself onto his face and feels the sting of pleasure-pain from his two large fingers in her still-mending body, added to the nighttime stubble on his face, and the last second pinch of a wet nipple between his thumb and forefinger – and she _shatters_.

Her back arches and she cries out so loudly, she can feel its echo around the small room. She hears a tear above her head, the bedsheet giving way between her clenched hands as twin tears streak out of her eyes and down her temples. She’s fairly confident that the pressure of her thighs pressing against the sides of his head are going to crush it like a tangoo melon.

Somehow, he survives and brings himself up her body, swiping his mouth and chin on his shoulder as he crawls towards her. She fists her hands in his hair and pulls him down to her in a savage kiss. She can taste herself on his tongue as their mouths fuse and fight, teeth hitting teeth, the tang of blood faintly discernible.

Rey reaches down between them and grips his cock in a tight fist. He groans deeply against her mouth and pulls back.

“Wait,” he rasps, “wait, baby, wait. I don’t want to hurt you. You’re so tight. You’re still healing—”

“Ben, now,” she moans, “Now, now, _now—_ ” She lines him up with her entrance and clenches his hips with her thighs, urging him forward by digging her heels into his bottom and canting her hips.

He surges forward before catching himself, hearing a hiccupping and abbreviated gasp come from his wife. “Ohh, no no no—” He pulls almost entirely out, but she still has her heels wedged into his gluteal muscles.

“No, no,” she reassures him, looking into his eyes, “it’s okay, truly, I’m fine.”

“Rey…” he says, warningly.

She nudges him with her feet again. “Please, Ben. I promise. Go… keep going.”

His jaw works as he looks down between their bodies. Achingly slow, he begins to thrust shallowly, in and out, each time going a bit deeper. 

A line is wedged between her brows, but it’s the only outward sign of discomfort. She rocks her hips lightly along with his thrusts. She feels him palpate the bond to see if he can gauge how she really feels, but it’s just warm, orange, soft with love. She hears a sigh and she’s not sure if it came from within her or out of her. A few more shallow penetrations, as she feels her slickness coating him, and she’s not sure if he’s ever been this hard—then, he’s fully seated within her. He gives her a moment to adjust, since the line between her brows is still there and now she’s closed her eyes tightly as well.

“Rey?” he breathes, kissing her nose, her forehead. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

She nods, jerkily, her lower lip trembling slightly. The look of consternation across her face intensifies. 

“Baby, baby, baby,” he moans, kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. “Let me pull out, I don’t want to hurt you—”

“No, Ben, no—” She opens her eyes and looks at him, lashes spiked with tears, hazel irises glittering up at him. “It’s not that. It’s just— _thank you_. Thank you for all of it. For listening, and for not thinking the worst of me, and for still—wanting me, despite it all—and just… no, let me finish,” she adds, when she can see him trying to interrupt. “It hasn’t been an easy road for us, from the beginning. And I don’t want you to think, now that things are finally good, that I’m—ungrateful. I’m just trying to manage as best I can—as best I know how. But I want you—I _need_ you to know that _I know_ , down to my _bones_ , how lucky I am to have you both. I’d never had anyone before and now I have the two most precious—” Her voice breaks and her face crumples and she can’t continue. He swallows hard and looks down at her, pained, but waits for her to regain composure, because he senses her resolve to finish her thought. After a beat she continues, voice ragged but still strong: “You are everything to me, both of you, and I need you to know how lucky I feel to have found you, to have had this opportunity to create this family, to have these moments, and to love you. I am so lucky that I get to love you, Ben Solo.” She ends on a whisper, her eyes looking back and forth between his, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, fingers curling into his hair.

He leans down and kisses her, stroking her tongue with his, reaching up to hold her head in his hands, so that they are both caught in this embrace, holding their faces together. He moves in and out of her as they kiss, then he breaks away to increase the depth of his stroke. He braces his hands on either side of her head and looks down at her. She smiles up at him through her tears, turning her head slightly to gently touch her temple to his forearm, stroking his arm up and down tenderly. She hears him through the bond, feels the waves of love and adoration and doting fondness rolling off of him. He knows she can sense his emotions and gives her a soft smile back, before leaning down and kissing her again.

“I’m the lucky one,” he whispers against her mouth. “Believe that.”

She knows it to be true. That, really, they’re both lucky. To have found each other. To have overcome. To be here, together.

She draws him closer, twining her arms around his back, and hitches her legs higher and tilts her hips upwards to take him deeper still, encouraging him to move. He takes her unsubtle hints and increases his thrusts, keeping a deep and steady pace.

She can feel his pleasure increasing in the bond as he thrusts become more frantic, less controlled. Her insides are smarting a little at the invasion, but she wouldn’t have him stop for the world, meeting him thrust for thrust, fueling her own pleasure with his. She cards her fingers through his hair and pulls the strands back, pulling his mouth to hers for a biting kiss. His hips stutter and she feels his entire body stiffen on a final, deep thrust accompanied by a long, loud groan. Her inner muscles clench as she feels him come, and the slippery warmth, soothing the friction of his thrusts, is the catalyst that sends her over the edge. With a loud cry, she tightens around him while he remains in the throes of his own orgasm and they finish together.

Gratification, bliss, contentment all detonate in a medley of emotion and colours. She feels at peace, so extraordinarily happy in this moment with him, in the throbbing warmth of their bond – that balance within the universe that seems to revel in their union – and Rey knows, as Ben Solo rests his head on her upper chest, even amidst the dried milk and sweat and tears, that she will no longer take any moment – good or bad – for granted.

As if on cue, a piercing cry rings out. Her breasts start to tingle again.

“Ben,” she murmurs against the top of his head. He grunts in reply and makes no move to get up. “Ben,” she says again as the wails down the hall get more persistent. He groans, but rolls off of her so she can actually move. Heaving herself up, she looks down at the mess she is comprised of, leaking and sticky. Deciding against actually wearing a top, she instead uses her night shirt (Ben’s shirt) to quickly clean up between her legs before dropping it on the floor with the towels, finding her sleep pants, hastily pulling them up, and leaving the room.

It doesn’t take her long to reach her daughter’s room. The baby’s face is pinched with distress, wailing her discontent to anyone who will listen. Rey picks her up, making soothing, clucking noises as she rocks her. Her daughter is head-butting Rey’s collarbone, which can only mean one thing, so Rey walks over to the cushy rocking chair Ben set up for in the weeks before she gave birth and settles in.

"Okay, Amma-girl," Rey murmurs into soft, black, downy hair. "Just like how we practised." With a now-experienced hand, Rey guides her nipple in the baby's mouth. Immediately, the infant latches like an old pro and starts suckling away. Rey sighs, contented, as she leans back and lets her daughter nurse. The soft snuffling noises bring a small smile to her face and, when a little hand comes up to play with the loose ends of her hair, Rey strokes it gently with her own finger as love permeates her veins.

She captures this moment in her heart, knowing that the next one or the one after that may not be as perfect. Her skin prickles and she looks up suddenly to see Ben, sleep pants on now, leaning against the door frame watching them both. His hair, overlong and perfect, hanging over one eye. His strong, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. Stomach still defined, yet a bit softer from years of peace and contentment rather than hardship and war. He regards her and their daughter with a soft, aching tenderness and she feels his love coursing through the bond, wrapping around them both like an embrace.

Yes, she has this moment. And it’s a good one.

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever find yourself in the same position as Rey, please take Ben's advice: talk to someone. Anyone. Your partner, a friend, a parent, a paid professional. What you're going through is normal and it's going to be okay - but do not deprive yourself of the help you need. Tap into your village. And, if you don't have a village, check out these resources:
> 
> -[Postpartum Support International](http://www.postpartum.net/get-help/locations/)  
> -[Canadian Mental Health Association](https://cmha.ca/documents/postpartum-depression)  
> -[PPD Moms](http://www.1800ppdmoms.org)  
> -[Centre of Perinatal Excellence](http://cope.org.au/first-year/postnatal-mental-health-conditions/postnatal-anxiety/treatment-postnatal-anxiety/)  
> -[CAMH: Centre for Addiction and Mental Health](https://www.camh.ca/en/hospital/health_information/a_z_mental_health_and_addiction_information/Postpartum-depression/Pages/default.aspx)  
> -[Pacific Postpartum Support Society](http://postpartum.org/)
> 
> This list is not exhaustive and is mostly specific to Canada/North America, which is where I’m from. If you need more help finding info specific to your own area, please feel free to get in touch and I will do my best to help. 
> 
> At the end of the day, this story only _touches_ on how serious postpartum depression and anxiety (PPD/PPA) can be, because it’s a fictional story and we’re mostly here for the smutty tingles, who are we kidding. That said, I’m not trying to make light of a serious topic and hope everyone can see this for what it is: an E-rated Reylo fic at heart, that briefly references a very serious subject that I’ve had some personal experience with and found a level of catharsis when writing about. In other words, do with it what you will (but, you know, leave kudos, too). 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and feel free to get in touch (here, or on [tumblr](delia-pavorum.tumblr.com)) for any reason.
> 
> Much love to all, but especially the mamas just doing their best. <3


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